Finding Felicity

by Stacey Kade

  “Caroline,” my mom says. “Jordan asked you which room?”

  I find my voice. “412.”

  Jordan turns right and we’re winding our way down a hallway that seems much darker and narrower than the online campus videos made it seem. It smells like Bath & Body Works and stale, old carpeting with a hint of beer. Music fills the air: A song with a folky-sounding guitar competes with the thumping bass of EDM from the other end of our wing.

  Most of the doors are open, with my floormates unpacking or lounging on their beds. A couple of them are hovering outside in the hall, greeting people as they walk by. Including me.

  “Hey, I’m Anna,” one of them says with a wave as we walk by. She has bright blue hair that hangs halfway down her back.

  I try to smile, but it feels too big or lopsided or something. “Hi! I’m Caroline!”

  “Oh my God, I love your skirt.” This is from the dark-haired girl next to Anna, her words curled with a Southern accent of some variety.

  “Thanks!” I say before it dawns on me that she might have meant it sarcastically. I’m not sure.

  “Don’t you put the rest of us to shame!” she says with a laugh, and Anna joins her. They are, like everyone else, dressed for the weather and the task—in shorts and tanks, flip-flops or sandals.

  I cringe. I’m wearing the wrong thing. Again. My smile wobbles and falls apart.

  I should probably stop and try to talk to them, sarcasm or not. This is my chance—people are actually acknowledging my existence—but right now all I can think about is getting into my room and having some privacy. Just for a minute.

  I tuck my head down and keep moving.

  At the door marked 412, Jordan stops, studying it for a long second. My name is written on a red cutout of an autumn leaf, as is Lexi’s. He glances back at me with a frown, as if seeking confirmation that this is the right place despite the construction-paper proof hanging right in front of him.

  “Is everything okay?” Mom asks, while I fumble to get my key out of the little envelope.

  “Oh yeah.” Jordan waves his hand dismissively, but his perplexed expression remains. “It’s nothing,” he says.

  Once I get the door open, Jordan and his friend stack my boxes just inside. Then his friend takes off with a nod at me.

  Jordan hesitates, his gaze flicking between the door and me, like he wants to say something more. But then he doesn’t. “See you, Caroline.”

  “That was odd,” my mom says once he’s out of earshot. “Maybe somebody has a crush.” She nudges me, amused.

  “Mom. No.”

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks, as I walk in and drop my bags in my room. I instantly feel better. I have a door now, one that can be closed behind me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just ready to get unpacked.”

  A bright, sunny square, the room is small, maybe slightly bigger than my bedroom when we lived in New York. Not much space to hold two desks, two chairs, and two people. The beds, which slide partially into the wall to provide seating, kind of like a sleeper sofa, take up most of the room. When they’re pulled out, Lexi and I will be sleeping practically nose-to-nose.

  But it’s so empty in here that it echoes, the sound of our steps ricocheting off the painted cinder-block walls.

  It looks nothing like the cozy rooms in the Ashmore brochure and on their website—the movie and Monet posters on the wall, the color-coordinated comforters, the laughing roommates curled up on their individual beds. It feels more prisony than homey at the moment. Although some of those things can and will be rectified—I have a brightly colored comforter in a box somewhere—it’s enough to make me miss my room at home. The pile of paperbacks stacked and falling off my nightstand. The bed I’ve had forever, with the divot in the center of the mattress in the exact shape of me. I’ve spent hours huddled there with my laptop.

  “Well,” my mom says with a sigh. “Here we are.”

  Yeah.

  The sink in the far corner drip-drip-drips into the silence.

  Get it together, Caroline. I drop and shrug off the various straps and handles of the bags I’m carrying and stumble over to the door to close it.

  “Caroline,” my mom begins.

  “One second.” I sift through the bags on the floor until I find my leather backpack, the cute one that doesn’t hold much. I packed my backup outfit in there, along with the few possessions that I couldn’t stand to let out of my sight. “I have to change. These clothes are wrong.”

  “Honey,” she says in a softer voice, the one that makes my spine go stiff. It’s the same voice she used when she told me we were leaving New York, a few months after my dad dropped his bombshell. “Your clothes are fine. Though maybe a little warm for the weather.”

  Ignoring her, I reach into my backpack and pull out the jean shorts that make my legs look long and the deliberately faded-looking T-shirt with the Ashmore logo that I ordered at the last minute. The tags are still on it. With more time and access to my whole wardrobe, I probably could have come up with something better, but right now I have to get out of this outfit before anyone else sees me in it.

  “All right,” Mom says after a moment. “What can I do to help? Where are your sheets? In one of the boxes? You did remember to pack sheets?”

  I kick off my ankle boots, wincing as one of the blisters breaks and fluid trickles out. “The green suitcase, but I can do it, Mom.” Now that we’re here, it feels strange to have her at my side, trying to help me settle in. It’s like being pulled between my past and my future, making it impossible to be in one place or the other completely.

  I look over in time to see a wounded expression flash across her face.

  “I may not agree with this,” she says, “but I am still your mother.” She rearranges my suitcases and bags, lining them up for a more efficient deployment of their contents.

  I unbutton and shrug out of my white camp shirt before throwing the Ashmore T-shirt over my head. Where is my deodorant?

  Mom unzips the green suitcase and pulls out the sheets and mattress cover, shaking them free of any dust or lint they may have somehow accumulated on the trip to Iowa.

  “You know, you don’t have to do that,” she says.

  I shuck my skirt—a red band of heat rash now scores my waist—and pull on the shorts. “I told you—”

  “Not just the clothes. I mean, pretending to be someone different.”

  “I’m not,” I mutter.

  “What was that voice downstairs? That’s not you.” She pulls the bed out and tugs the mattress cover into place.

  “Mom—”

  “I’m worried about you, Caroline,” she says, reaching for the sheets. “I feel like you’re trying too hard to be something you’re not. You don’t need to be anyone other than who you are.”

  The laugh that escapes me is too high-pitched. “I’m not sure anyone else agrees with you.” Dad. The entirety of Merriman South.

  “Caroline—”

  “I’m not trying to be someone else,” I say, frustrated. “I’m trying to be a better version of me, okay?”

  Her hands, smoothing the bottom sheet, freeze in mid-motion, and she’s quiet for a long minute. “I agreed to Ashmore on a trial basis for the semester because Daniel Wegman seemed to think it would be the best thing for you, but I want to be clear that I still have reservations. If it seems like this . . . experiment is not going the way we hoped, I will not hesitate to bring you home. Immediately.”

  “Mom, it’s not an experiment! This is where I—” The doorknob rattles, interrupting me, and then the door swings open. I snap my mouth closed, and Lexi walks in.

  At least, I think it’s Lexi. She doesn’t look much like her profile photo, her senior picture. People usually dress up a little for those, but this is more than that. Her long wheat-colored hair is bundled into a sloppy bun, revealing the freshly shaved sides underneath. The black sweater and pearls in her photo have been replaced with an old flannel, the sleeves torn out, and a whit
e tank beneath it. Metal studs dot the outer rim of her ear with a hoop on the inner cartilage. Her cutoffs are paint-splattered—with actual paint, not as a design element. And she’s wearing battered leather cowboy boots.

  Shit kickers. The term floats through my head.

  I try not to gape.

  Lexi stops when she sees me. Something like resignation flickers across her face. “You must be Caroline.”

  Why does that not sound like a good thing coming from her?

  It takes me a second, but I manage to nod.

  The faded green duffel on her shoulder slides down, and she tosses it on her empty bed. A waft of stale cigarette smoke rises up in the wake of her movement. “Awesome,” Lexi says, making it sound like anything but.

  “Hi Lexi. I’m Regina, Caroline’s mom.” With a determined expression, my mom steps forward, holding out her hand.

  Lexi looks at her hand, then shakes it, letting go as soon as possible.

  She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “This is my friend Erica.”

  I glance past Lexi and see for the first time the short girl behind her. Her thin dark hair has deep shades of magenta mixed throughout. Her eyeliner is thick and blue, and it matches the gem stud in her nose.

  Erica looks us up and down with a faint sneer, snapping her gum. “Hey. What’s up?” She gives a salute, an unlit cigarette caught between her index and middle fingers.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Lexi smirks at Erica, like there’s a joke we’re somehow missing, and the ensuing silence is awkward and awful.

  “So, I’ll be back,” Lexi says. “More stuff.”

  “Okay,” I say faintly.

  Then the two of them back out of the door, closing it behind them.

  But the door only muffles their burst of laughter from the hallway.

  “That was not what I was expecting,” my mom says, her eyebrows arched in judgment.

  Me neither, but I can’t admit that, now can I?

  “It’s fine. I’m sure we’re going to get along like . . . two peas in a pod.” Mom looks at me but says nothing.

  I move past her and grab the top sheet, spreading it across the bed. “You know,” she says, stepping back. “Doug’s been encouraging me to take more time off. I have all those vacation days saved up, and I’ll lose them if I don’t use them.” She grabs the bottom end of the sheet and tucks it beneath the mattress.

  Her too-casual tone is a warning, and my stomach clenches.

  “Normally, it’s too busy,” she says. “But we have Sophie now, and she can manage things for a day or two. I’ll come in a few weeks, spend some time with you, see campus, take you out to dinner. You and . . . your friends.” Her tone is firm, not one of suggestion.

  No! That will ruin everything.

  “I don’t need you to check on me,” I say. Especially not that soon. The idea sets panic aflutter within me. That is not part of the plan.

  “Maybe it’s not for you,” she says. “Maybe it’s for me. I messed up, Caroline, and I know that. But I’m trying to fix it. So I need to know that you’re all right. Really all right, not like—” She cuts herself off.

  Not like before. Not like when I lied to her. For years. Not like now, when I’m still lying to her.

  Guilt sits heavily on my chest. If I protest too much, that’s only going to make her more determined.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to smile as my mind scrambles, trying to find a workaround that won’t destroy everything. “Sure.”

  Chapter Five

  It’s not a crisis. I’m just going to have to step things up a notch, maybe switch things around a little. That’s all.

  That’s what I keep telling myself in the hours after my mom leaves. But the truth is, I’m so screwed.

  I have a plan. All right, more a set of guidelines than an actual plan, but still.

  I’m going to:

  Reinvent myself at Ashmore with:

  • pthe correct clothing (epic fail already, Caroline) and attitude

  • a more outgoing and bubbly personality (a.k.a. Stella)

  . . . which will lead to making more socially adept friends who then invite me to the right parties and cool events or whatever.

  . . . which will then lead to Phase II.

  But the plan or guidelines or whatever require time. Which I no longer have. My mom got weepy downstairs while we waited for the cab, but reiterated her promise to visit. Even pulled out her phone to block off a weekend . . . in three weeks. Three weeks!

  How am I supposed to accomplish in three weeks what I couldn’t master in three years at home? Granted, I’m more prepared this time, but that may not be enough.

  Still. I’m here. At Ashmore. In Brekken. That sends a quiver of excitement through me.

  I take a deep breath and hang the last of my clothes in the closet, straightening the hangers. I can make this work. I’ll just have to make it work faster.

  Laughter sounds in the hallway, making me jump.

  I stare at the door as though it holds mystical wisdom, or at the very least suggestions on how to proceed. I should probably be out there. Talking to people. Or trying to. I could even take a tour around the other floors.

  No. I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

  Besides, I have so much to do in here. I haven’t started organizing my desk or school supplies. And I’m pretty sure the Felicity poster—a rare find, thank you, eBay—hanging over my bed is crooked. I need to fix that.

  Lexi’s side of the room is bare, nothing but luggage, her striped mattress, and a laptop case on her desk. She and Erica came back to the room for about three seconds with another bag—an old-fashioned hard-sided suitcase in a deep harvest gold—while my mom was here. But I haven’t seen them since.

  The only thing remotely personal on her side is a shiny white WORLD’S BEST NURSE mug on her desk, next to the laptop case.

  Lexi’s different from what I pictured—different, literally, from even her own picture. I wonder if it’s a recent change. Maybe I’m not the only one trying to reinvent myself.

  It’s easy to imagine, though, that she’ll be someone who takes no shit. I’ve always wanted a friend like that. Someone who isn’t afraid to stand up for herself or for those who can’t do it for themselves.

  Maybe once she’s back from wherever she is, we can wander the hallways together.

  The thought of not going out there alone makes the knot in my chest loosen. I could do that.

  So I’ll wait for Lexi. And conquer my desk while I’m waiting.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing on the bolster above my bed, trying to straighten my poster, when someone gives a sharp knock on the door and shoves it open without waiting for me to respond.

  “Wing meeting in the floor lounge in five,” Ayana says, sticking her head in. She seems unfazed at finding me standing on the bolster.

  “Oh. Okay.” I try to keep my precarious balance.

  “Great poster,” Ayana says.

  “Thanks. It’s my favorite—”

  “I hope you’re using the nonstick stuff, or they’ll get you for cleanup charges at the end of the year,” she warns.

  I nod.

  “Tell your roommate,” she says, as she vanishes from the doorway.

  I assume she means I should tell Lexi about the meeting, not the poster stuff.

  After finishing with the poster, I drop onto my bed to wait. Lexi and I are roommates—it would be weird to go to our first wing meeting without her, right? I think so.

  My new comforter smells strongly of its plastic packaging and/or whatever finisher they used to make the fabric so stiff. Other girls walk by my door—our door—talking and laughing on their way to the lounge.

  After a few minutes, the flow of people passing by my room dies down, and the chatter sounds more distant. The meeting is going to start, and I’m going to be late if I wait for Lexi any longer. The only thing worse than walking in last is walking in alone and last. It screams, I have no friends and no one wants
to hang out with me.

  That is not going to be me. Not anymore.

  I push myself off the bed. I’ll have to catch up with Lexi at the meeting. Maybe Ayana caught her in the hall and sent her to the lounge already.

  After one last check in the mirror—hair okay; makeup better after that last touch-up—I close the door and hurry down the hall.

  The floor lounge is near the stairs, with a small kitchen area and a few upholstered chairs and a couch, all of which look like they escaped from a cheap motel in the show Supernatural.

  When I walk in, the chairs are already occupied, plus half the couch, and most of the floor. And Lexi is . . . not here.

  I hesitate at the threshold, not sure where to go.

  There are twenty or thirty of us, and I am surprised by how quickly people seem to have formed pairs or small groups. Some of them are roommates, obviously, or sisters, in the case of the identical twins squeezed together on the couch. But others appear to be random. A few feet away, Anna with the blue hair is telling a story with a lot of enthusiastic hand gestures to her audience of three. On the opposite side of the room, another cluster of girls crowd together on the chairs, taking selfies and laughing.

  The dark-haired girl, the one who teased me about my clothes earlier, slides past me. “Excuse me, darlin’.” She perches with ease on the back of the couch, her tanned ankles crossed neatly on the ratty arm, like the princess of a rather poor kingdom, but one who still expects to marry well.

  I look automatically to the far corner of the room, a place to hide and observe, but find it’s already occupied by a girl with glasses and the end of her fuzzy braid tucked into her mouth like a pacifier. Her knees are pulled tight to her chest, like she’s working to make herself as small and invisible as possible.

  Exactly as I would have done. Except I’m not here to be that Caroline.

  “All right, everyone!” Ayana raises her voice as she moves past me toward the center of the room, a clipboard in her hand. “Let’s get settled. This should only take a few minutes.”

  I lift my chin, suck in a breath, and make my way across the lounge, carefully avoiding fingers and toes and phones on the floor, to the space remaining on the couch between the rightmost twin and the arm where the queen presumptive is resting her feet.